Pages

Friday, 26 December 2014

After many
months of tracking down this famous figure, the Scribbler was finally able to
get Santa Claus to agree to answer 4 questions for the 4Q Interview.The query was submitted to the admin division
of SC Enterprises, North Pole, on July 15th, 2014. We received a
last minute email only an hour ago.The
note was apologetic for its delay, albeit a cheerful assertion of Mr. Claus’
demanding schedule. It went on to thank us for our patience and delight in
participating on the Scribbler.

It was
difficult to consider only four questions for one of the world’s most famous
people. We decided to pose a dozen and
let Santa choose.Here they are.

4Q: Are elves real?

SC:Ho, Ho. Ho! You don’t know how many
times I’ve been asked that Allan. Is
gravity, space, time or magnetism real? They’re totally unexplainable but
certifiably so; that’s what elves are. Centuries ago, these supernatural beings
were made known to civilization through Germanic and Nordic mythology and all
kinds of elves exist. It’s true that they have magical powers. They’re
especially beautiful figures. And they’re clever. Oh, whatever would I do
without them?

In our
ultra-secret complex, we have over twenty thousand of the rascals, they breed
worse than rabbits. The logistics sometimes can be a tad overwhelming.Thank goodness they are all happy, there are
never any conflicts. Lucky for the Missus and me the elders keep everything in
order.I always say the more the
merrier, especially since we just secured the Toys-B-Us account. We’ll be making
all the toys for the 14,329 locations as well as our own 100,000,000 pieces I
give away. All profits will be invested in the elves retirement program, of
course.

Oh yes, they
are very real. I remember JR (Tolkien)
and I having a long talk about this eighty years ago or so when he began
writing. An interesting man that had odd ideas of his own elves and my goodness
but his characters are popular toys today.As far as the elves that only I can see, I can’t describe them to you.
They need to remain part of your imagination. I can tell you this for sure,
they are mischievous and quite short. Ho, Ho, Ho!

4Q: How is it Santa that you can truly
know if every boy and girl is good or bad, who should get gifts and who
shouldn’t?

SC:Well now that’s a good question
coming from you. You were a bad little bugger sometimes. I still showed up
though, didn’t I? I knew all about Mary McLaughlin’s plastic dinner set and
what you did with it. The worst thing you did was when you shot John, your next
door neighbor, in the buttock with the BB gun I left you one year. It was only
for your mother punishing you properly and taking it away from you that kept
you on the list.

There really
aren’t any bad children Allan, only parents that don’t teach their children
right from wrong. I mean, have you ever heard of someone having to teach a kid
to be bad. Ho Ho Ho! They do that on their own. No, we have to teach them to be
good.

And to get
back to my elves, they and I have mastered time manipulation of course, because
how else would I get all those gifts delivered in one night. Phew! There is
about 2000 that all they do is check up on children all year round. They are
part of the Lollipop and Derogate
Division of the Elves Union.On a
good day, an experienced elf can visit several thousand homes and deliver
verbal reports to the Head Decider and she in turn reports to me.

Most tykes
are just mischievous. I have found that the worst imps are from Kent and Albert
counties in your home province of New Brunswick. Especially the ones that grow
up to be authors, they have these weird imaginations getting themselves into
all kinds of trouble. My goodness but I think it’s from too much sugar.

There are
not many that don’t get presents.

4Q:Please share a childhood anecdote or
memory Santa.

SC:Hmmm! I don’t think I ever was a
child Allan; at least I have no memory of being one. No, nothing comes to mind.

I do however
have a thought to share with you and your readers. When kids stop believing in
me, they normally stop believing in magic and mystery. That’s kind of sad. I
love it though that some adults never stop believing. You see them with antlers
sticking out of the windows of their cars or a fake Rudolph red nose on the
grill, or a huge inflated replica of me on the lawn, or they’re working in the
food kitchens, or buying gifts for people they don’t even know. Ho Ho Ho!

4Q:What do you do in the off season
Santa, or is there an off season?

SC:Oh yes, there is definitely a time
away from the hustle and bustle of the North Pole. Ho Ho Ho! The Missus and I
have a condo on the island of Bequia in the Caribbean. Down there, I’m just the
nice fat guy next door that needs to trim his beard.I go by the name of Ralph and the wife is
Suzie. We live next door to an author you might know, her name is Susan and I
especially love her last name Toy, it holds special meaning for me, of course.
Great gal, quite the storyteller. I have a sailboat as well, a 27 foot CS27
that we meander about the coast with. I drink cold beer on Friday nights when
the missus (she’s the red wine drinker) and I have our weekly happy hour.
Although we can’t have children, we still practice making babies as often as we
can (wink wink). Ho Ho Ho!

I collect Christmas movies which shouldn’t be
a surprise I guess. My favorite one is Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase. I
love it when Clark gets tongue-tied with the pretty lady selling lingerie.
Another funny part is when his cousin Eddy shows up with no money and an
especially long Christmas list. And the old guy with the wig cracks me up each
time.

I’m part of
a jazz trio. I play the doghouse bass with two of my cronies down there, Jaspar
on the piano and Merle on the saxophone. We have gigs most Sunday afternoons
all over the islands, quite the following actually. We call ourselves Digger
(that’s Merle’s nickname) and the Dots. When she’s in town, we always have
Kitty LaRoar join us, such an angelic voice. We diddle with the old classics,
especially Cole Porter’s collection of jewels.

I do a
little gardening, actually as little as possible but the missus likes her
flowers. I have short naps two or three times a day. I forget about chimneys,
pass keys, good and bad, elves under my feet, reindeer in their stalls, the chilly
weather, the logistics, gift wrapping and signing my name a million times.

I never wear
anything red when I am on holidays. The elves have strict instructions
Not-To-Peek-In-Our-Windows. Sometimes I like to be mischievous too.

Thank you
Santa Claus for sharing your thoughts on the Scribbler.All the best for the future of Christmas when
we celebrate the birth of Christ.Oh and
by the way, next year I want…….

Next week on the Scribbler, you will meet Louise Boulter of Moncton, New Brunswick and have the opportunity to read her touching short story - Date Night.

Friday, 19 December 2014

Maggie
James is a British author who lives in Bristol. She writes psychological
suspense novels.

The first
draft of her first novel, entitled His Kidnapper’s Shoes, was written whilst
travelling in Bolivia. Maggie was inspired by an impending milestone birthday
along with a healthy dose of annoyance at having procrastinated for so long in
writing a novel. His Kidnapper’s Shoes was published in both paperback and
e-book format in 2013, followed by her second novel, entitled Sister,
Psychopath. Her third novel, Guilty Innocence, like her first two, features her
home city of Bristol. She has recently published her fourth novel, The Second
Captive.

Before
turning her hand to writing, Maggie worked mainly as an accountant, with a
diversion into practising as a nutritional therapist. Diet and health remain
high on her list of interests, along with travel. Accountancy does not, but
then it never did. The urge to pack a bag and go off travelling is always
lurking in the background! When not writing, going to the gym, practising yoga
or travelling, Maggie can be found seeking new four-legged friends to pet;
animals are a lifelong love! Her links are below.

‘Hey, check out that
tart! Can you believe the state of her?’ Sniggers erupt from the two teenage
boys nearby, who nudge each other as they stare at me. I avoid eye contact,
praying they’ll find another source of amusement. Ahead is a pedestrian
crossing, where an elderly woman waits to cross. She’s older, wiser, won’t
judge me. I shuffle towards her.

‘What
a nutter! The bitch has got slippers on!’ The mocking hoots of the teenagers
follow me, straight into the ears of the old woman. Her eyes scrape over my
clothes, grimace at my footwear, before she spots my jogging bottoms, slashed
and dark with my blood. Disapproval tugs the corners of her mouth. I shrink,
chastened, into the doorway of the nearest shop, until she stops staring.

Not that I blame her, or the boys. The cuts
to my knees must look bad. As for my feet, I don’t own any shoes; the
soft pink slippers are my only form of footwear. Wear them, or go barefoot;
that was my choice. The rain started ten minutes after I left the cottage,
rendering my feet cold and wet. Sore, too. The thin leather soles aren’t suitable
for walking the distance I’ve travelled. What must it be, two, perhaps three
miles? The Clock Tower is straight ahead of me, its red brick a distinctive
Kingswood landmark. Past it is The Busy Bean. The coffee shop where life as I
once knew it ended two years ago, when I was eighteen.

The doorway provides shelter; I tell myself
I’ll
move on once the rain isn’t so heavy. The idea of taking an umbrella didn’t
occur to me before leaving the cottage; it was a soft September morning as I
eased myself over the windowsill, the sky a uniform blue. Weather isn’t
something I’ve concerned myself with during the last two years. You might say
I’ve led a sheltered life during that time.

As well as my feet being sore, my calves
ache; I’m
not used to walking so far. Weariness seeps through me, threatening to reduce
me to tears, another humiliation I don’t need. To the casual observer, I must
look weird enough already, what with the fluffy slippers and the bloody knees.
Not to mention the jacket I’m wearing, the sleeves of which are long enough to
cover my hands. It’s Dominic’s jacket. Like shoes, a coat isn’t something I
possess. I’ve not ventured outside the cottage for two years; it’s likely I
never would have again, but the need to find Dominic proved too urgent.

Liar, a small voice in my head chides me.
He’s
not who you need right now. Instead, an image arises in my brain: a woman with
long, dark hair piled on her head in messy disarray, her eyes tender with the
smile they hold, the love in her expression warming me to the soles of my cold,
wet feet.

The rain has eased to no more than a
drizzle. I should move on, but I’m frightened. Everything’s louder, bigger,
brighter, than I remember. My horizons have shrunk to the confines of a damp
basement, and I’m unprepared for how terrifying the outside world is. Were
there always so many cars on the roads? All these people thronging the streets?
A child starts screaming, the sound magnified in my ears. Panic grips me. I
can’t do this.

It’s not too late, I tell myself. Go back to
the cottage; take refuge in the familiarity of the basement. Where mouthy
teenagers can’t mock. Where old women don’t judge.

In my head, the woman with the messy hair
smiles at me again. ‘Come home,’ she says. My panic subsides.

I turn towards The Busy Bean, its heady
coffee aroma meeting me several yards from the open door. The rich caffeine
scent, a smell I’ve not inhaled for a long time, teases my nostrils; I close my
eyes with pleasure. Dominic is a staunch Earl Grey man. And what he drinks, so
do I.

I walk towards that delicious aroma, as
though I intend to stride through the door and order lunch, grabbing my usual
table towards the back, when I stop myself. The soaked slippers, the
obviously-not-mine jacket mock me, echoing the teenagers; I’m
too wet, too weird, too wacky, to venture inside. The windows are wet and
smeary as I peer through them. None of the baristas looks familiar, but then
serving in a coffee shop isn’t usually a long-term job option. Nobody is likely
to recognise me, but I still can’t go in. They’ll expect me to order something,
and money, like shoes, isn’t a commodity I possess. I don’t have a handbag, or
a purse, any coins or credit cards. I did have, once, but Dominic disposed of
everything I owned. Ah, my blue leather wallet, the loss of which still hits me
like a wrecking ball. A memory surfaces of the woman with the messy hair,
smiling as I unwrap her surprise present.

My stomach growls, no doubt alerted by the
coffee and cake smells. In the last thirty-six hours, my only food has been a
hummus sandwich; I need to eat, and quickly.

I turn away, and there, opposite me,
leading off the High Street, is the road towards Downend. I cross towards it.
Saplings are growing along the pavement, their branches sprouting new life. My fingers
trail over the bark of one of them, enjoying its roughness beneath my skin,
such a contrast to the soft foliage above. As I explore, reacquainting myself
with the luxury of doing so, a terrier approaches, sniffing me. I bend down,
allowing myself to stroke its wiry pelt, before yanking my hand away,
remembering. Dogs are dirty, carry disease. Dominic said so.

I start walking again. Every step is a
reminder of my sore feet, my aching calves. I ignore my body and retreat into
my head, my thoughts fixed on my destination. And the reception I’m
likely to face. The reason I’ll give for my two-year absence. My mind spins
back to my parents, to my old family home, which is where I’m heading. The
woman with the messy dark hair is my mother. My father, with his heavy jawline,
his greying hair, his jowly chin betraying the fact he’s going to seed, joins
her in my head. Along with Troy. My brother.

Whatever I say, it won’t
sound convincing. My best bet is to tell them I’ve been staying with friends,
provoked into leaving by my father’s constant nagging. Either
get a job or go to university, Beth, for God’s
sake! The two choices he sees as a fit path for
my future. My mother will be hurt, of course, disappointed by my apparent
selfishness, but better that than revealing the truth. How would I ever find
the words?

One thought has always tortured me. Why no
one found me. Troy must have told my parents what he saw that night. Why wasn’t
it enough for the police - because of course my mother would have called them -
to track me down?

I turn into Draper Street. My eyes fall on
the house where I grew up, where I lived all my life until the age of eighteen.
Before I went missing. Tears mist my vision. My chest grows tight.

I walk towards the door. My fingers rub
against what’s
in the pocket of my jogging bottoms, its small yet solid coolness hard against
my touch.

‘Wish
me luck,’ I tell its former owner.

My hand moves towards the bell, before
stopping. To press my finger against it is an irrevocable action, bringing the
inevitable question: where have you been
for the last two years?

My wet feet, my aching legs, the desperate
hollow in my stomach, leave me no choice. More than that, the yearning to have
my mother’s
arms wrap around me, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, sweeps
through me with tornado-like force. ‘Beth,’ she’ll murmur against my hair.
‘You’ve come home. At last.’

My finger pushes the doorbell, releasing
the familiar one-two ding-dong chimes deep into the belly of the house.

I wait.

Nobody comes.

Anxiety invades my brain, conjuring up
unthinkable scenarios. My family have moved away, abandoned me, leaving me
standing here with my ice-block-cold toes and my empty stomach. Then reason
asserts itself; my mother’s car is in the driveway, the familiar faded
red of the Fiat’s bodywork proof that she, at least, hasn’t exited from my
life. I press the bell again, its chimes a plea for her to come.

Footsteps sound in the hallway, moving
towards the door. It’s solid wood, so I can’t see who’s behind it until it opens.

Teak gives way to space, and to my mother.

I’m home. At last.

Thank you Maggie for sharing this exciting beginning. Readers - watch for Chapters 1 & 2 of the Second Captive in the following months to come.The novel can be purchased at amazon by clicking the following, http://smarturl.it/thesecondcaptive

Friday, 12 December 2014

This story was first published on commuterlit.com. I actually delivered food to a food bank once. While none of this happened, it could have.

The Food Bank.

Food
is a necessary staple of everyone’s life. Because of that I toss my loose
change in an old cookie jar daily, a bust of Woody Woodpecker I bought in a
yard sale, sans cover. Stationed on
my night table by the lamp he faces the closet; the ceramic peeping-tom watches
me change my clothes all the time. At the end of each month, he and I probably
save up sixteen to twenty dollars. Whoopee! But today is cause for celebration;
I counted this month’s take after breakfast and found a couple of misplaced
toonies for an all time high of $23.44. I am elated. There will be eight more
Mr. Noodles to dole out.

Today’s
my day off, Wednesday, the end of January only one day away. My to-do list lying
on the kitchen table nags at me, do these, do that, do this, do that, but I
grab the pencil sitting next to it and tick off number one, “Donation time!!!!”
The Maritime Megamart with over two acres of supreme shopping pleasure is where I’m headed. It’s not far so I
decide to walk. I retrieve my wool pea jacket from the closet, gloves from the
basket on the upper shelf, boots from the rack. Just before I’m ready to leave,
I remember the frosty abstract art on my bedroom window. It’s likely colder
than it looks I think, deciding to use a scarf.A Tip Top Tailors suit hanger holds a bevy of colored wraps, snaked
about each other; the brightest and flowered ones belong to my wife. I opt for
my favorite grey and black checkered one pulling it from the tangled mess. When
I do so, a beige scarf falls to the floor.

I’d
almost forgotten about it. It belongs to my son.It’s thick and dotted with flecks of dark
brown, if it was stretched open it would read, “Burton” in orange letters. He won
a bunch of gear in a snowboarding competition four winters ago. There had been
two identical scarves, he gave one to me. I don’t know where mine is now, I
gave it away. The memory it evokes is forceful and gives me shivers; the irony
of finding it today causes bumps about my flesh. I have to sit down, my mind
races with the memory of my first and only visit to the Food Bank. It was the
end of January three years ago that this ritual began.

I
work in the maintenance department at the Jollywell Hospital. Every year since
I’ve been there, our department puts out bins in the lunchroom at the first of
December to be filled with non perishable food items. Not for Christmas as our
supervisor explained, every one gives for Christmas, we would give ours in
January when it was needed more, made sense to me. Someone taped a loose leaf
to the side of one bin. It was a bit crooked with nicely shaped letters from a
black marker, “For the Homeless and Hungry.”The bold lines were a revelation for me, I’d never been hungry; as my ample
girth would suggest because I’m a bit overweight. I bought more. I even
volunteered to deliver the bins. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.

Maneuvering
four overloaded blue receptacles into my Ford wagon early one Saturday morning
around eight, I set out with the elation of doing a good deed, of representing
my co-workers, of benevolence. It took me some time to find the building, it
wasn’t well marked, which seemed odd at first but I realized a fancy sign
wasn’t important.The main building ran
parallel to the street, curved sheets of corrugated steel formed walls and
ceiling, crusted snow lie in some troughs, the virgin white softening the dull
galvanized grey. A smudged and dented garage door about twelve feet wide on the
left faces the road, the entryway of patched asphalt is neatly shoveled free of
snow and ice. A cleared walkway leads to an extension, an add-on with a gable
end facing the street, it looks like a store front except it has no window,
only a dark green door, a lighted doorbell the shape of an angel, black four-inch
high digits that said 41 and a white sign the size of a license plate, which I
couldn’t read from the driveway but I knew it said The House of Plenty.

I
backed my car up to the building, off to one side. There were neither windows
nor any sign of entrance around the garage door; the whole building had an air
of anonymity. I saw a few cars, older
models, parked in front along the street. Two men, separate from each other,
were on the other side of the roadway having a smoke. A shopping cart from a
local grocer stood alone near the walkway entrance, it was rusted in spots, had
a missing front wheel. I could see that it contained mostly returnables, some
poor man’s daily wages I thought. It dimmed my mood just a bit. I lifted the
lightest of the bins from the back seat and headed for the entrance of uninviting
green.

The
door squeaked a little as I opened it, an early warning system maybe. I pushed
my way in with my rump, carrying the bin to enter a dimly lit room. Directly in
front of me, six feet away, was a wall extending ten feet to the right. The
balance of the room stretched out towards the rear for about twenty feet where
there were people waiting. The only thing that matched the low wattage of the
bare overhead bulbs was the look on the faces I encountered. It was too quiet.
My good cheer vanished like the rabbit in the hat.I rudely stared at the small crowd, my
curiosity so intense when I realized these people were here for food. I had
come in the wrong door.

The
area made an attempt to be bright; white benches along two walls, dark brown
fabric padding the seats, the pale blue walls too institutional for me. The
temperature was just below comfortable; no one took off their jackets. A faint
scent of Lysol was the only welcoming feature. No one spoke, most were just
studying me. I wondered what they must be thinking; am I some kind of saviour,
am I just a good guy or maybe they resent that I can give, instead of ask for,
I can’t tell. None of the expressions change. The only sound was when some of
the standing in the back shuffled and a floorboard squeaked.

My
eyes focused on a woman at the front of the bench closest to me. She was
bundled in a pink ski jacket decorated with long use. Her disappointed face was
wrapped with a white scarf in stark contrast to her coat because of its
newness. Perched on her lap of tight jeans was a small girl of perhaps four
whose hooded coat was neat and pink also. The child’s head rested on her
mother’s breast, her little body, only clad in faded jeans and sneakers,
shivered slightly in the coolness of the room.I had to look away, it was too sad. I quickly eyeballed the remaining
patrons.

They‘re
about equal of both genders, more middle-aged than young, all of them too thin.
I recognized the older man that sits in the back on the floor; I’d seen him
many times downtown trying to be polite as he asked strangers for some change.
He wraps his many coated arms about his drawn up knees. Four or five plastic
bags squat at his feet like trained pets, probably everything he owns. His head
and beard are grizzly grey, unkempt and stringy. I have no idea how old he is
nor his name. I doubt he’s going to be able to carry away much when I realize
he’s here for the warmth, it’s a line up he won’t get thrown out of.

The
two young men that sit on the bench to my right, I can only think of them as
punks, are out of place; like that joke about an NAACP tee shirt at a Klan
gathering. Open jackets reveal tattoos on their necks. The flames and trident’s
make me suspect they’ve been in jail. They stare at the floor. I try not to
judge them but with both wearing new clothes, I want to throw them out.

Farther
along the same bench sits an elderly woman. When I meet her eyes she haughtily
turns them away.Her cheeks are too red
from an abundance of blush, the rouge unable to brighten the pale, creased
skin.

A burgundy pillbox hat like the one Jackie Kennedy used to wear, is
pinned neatly to her head. A luxurious fur coat bundles her slight torso. She
wears black silky gloves with gemstones crested upon the back. Hat and coat are
about fifty years old from my best estimate, the gloves, I’m not sure but
they’re shabby too. She lifts her chin. I’m struck by the pride I witness in
her bearing. I understand what the posture means; the neat, aging costume tells
me she wasn’t always poor.

I try and focus on my mission; this wavering
of feelings is unsettling. Setting the container on the floor I address a man
that stands to my left in the corner. He’s chest level with a sliding panel that
looks about twenty inches high and three feet wide on the wall in front of me.
I try on my best smile.

“Where
would I take this... this bin?”

I
feel guilty somehow about saying food or donation.

The
man was bearded and wore workman’s clothes, clean but worn. His somber face
seemed kind as he nodded the peak of his John Deere hat at the buzzer to the
left of the sliding door. It was unlit and painted the same blue as the wall,
playing find me if you can, I hadn’t noticed it.

“Thanks”
I said and thumbed the switch. I had to wait a few minutes.I’m usually a talker in a crowd but there
didn’t seem anything proper to say; people didn’t come here to meet people. My
thinking was disturbed by the cautious opening of the white colored panel. I
was confounded by the image it exposed; so much that I didn’t respond to the
opener’s presence or request. The portal was like a television set in the wall,
the scene so different to the room that I was in.

It was brightly lit with shelves
of various cans, boxes and bags of food along the walls I could see. People
were scurrying about with armfuls of items, others sorting them on tables. They
were joking and laughing. I looked quickly around embarrassed at first by the
sounds of merriment next door but then I thought, why not? I guessed that these
workers are volunteers, people unselfish of their time; they’re not hungry so
why shouldn’t they be content. It just seemed so odd, the imbalance of emotions,
the uneven see-saw of have and have-nots. My amazement was shorted when a loud
voice suggested.

“We’ll
only be open at ten.”

I
was momentarily taken aback thinking he mistook me for a requester. I frowned
at the older man; he was bald with white fringes overlapping his small ears.
Round silver framed glasses were stuck on the end of his nose. He had a silver
bushy moustache. He lifted his matching brows in question. I pointed to the
container at my feet.

“I
have some bins from the Jollymore, where would you like me to take them.”

His
can’t-you-see-I’m-busy attitude changed with a thankful smile smoothing out the
man’s long face.

“Go
out to the garage door and give it a good thump or two and someone back there
will help you.”

The
cover slid back smartly, I was back in the gloom. As I was bending my knees to
pick up the bin, the toes of the little girl’s shaking feet I see in my
peripheral vision disturbs my concentration.I look up at the trembling child. The voice is frail but flowery.

“Can
we go home soon, I’m cold Mommy”

The
woman opens her jacket and folds the ends about the little girl. She doesn’t
speak words of comfort, perhaps there are none? I’m acutely aware of the bundle
of wool and polyester around my neck with a flash of the dozens more at home.
It suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. My son just gave it to me. I decided he’d
understand, knowing him, he’d do the same thing. Unwrapping the scarf from my
head I step towards the woman.She
watches me as I extend my hand while pointing at the wrap with my other. She reddens as she looks me in the eyes. I
only see uncertainty, nothing to do with the scarf. She accepts my gift to
hastily twist it about her daughter’s lower body.

The
other people are watching us and I begin to blush. I want to escape so I don’t
wait for acknowledgment. Hurrying to my bin, a stranger conveniently opens the
door to enter. I quickly dart around the man as he shuffles in. Before the door
clunks shut I hear,

“Thank
you Mister”

The
sincerity of her platitude waifs like warm breath in the nippy air, floating,
lingering for only a moment. My neck is cold. Her words fill my heart. Pinpricks
flourish along my neck and spine as I think of the crew indoors, the hungry, misplaced
and the lonely. I vowed then to feed as many people that my skinny budget would
allow. I would never volunteer to deliver the bins again.

If you can find it in your heart do give at least one food item this year to someone that may be hungry, please do it.

Next Friday, watch for an excerpt from an exciting new novel by guest author Maggie James of the United Kingdom.

Thank you for visiting my blog. Please leave a comment and tell your friends about the South Branch Scribbler

Friday, 5 December 2014

Katrina Cope lives in Queensland Australia. She is a published author with the Sanctum Series Books. Her links are below.The following was taken from her website.

I grew up in a small country town with plenty of time to
let my creativity run wild. This was fueled with a large amount of time spent
traveling to different areas of the world, coming in contact with many
different personalities and cultures.

The last eight years has been spent running a small business with my husband
and raising three young boys and writing in any spare time.

After finishing my first book, it came to light just how much I love writing
and I now write a great deal more. My boys are growing up, approaching the
teenage years quickly, allowing me more time to write and asking for the next
book.

The Sanctum
Series – The truth behind the deep and dark side

Have you
ever read something in a book and think, ‘That is not possible’? If you did,
was your next move to Google it? I know that would be my next move. We have
such a great privilege in these current times to have access to so much
information at our fingertips. We don’t have to be experts in the field or do
hours of research at the library, to find out the basic information we need.

Why do I
bring this up? Well, at them moment I am working on a book series called ‘The
Sanctum Series’. It is written primarily for preteens and older, and is a spy
thriller/sci-fi adventure series. The series has many humorous moments between
the different personalities and many twists. As the series continues, it ramps
up the action, and the plot thickens. It is a perfect mix for males and
females.

What makes
it different to the rest of the books in these genres? Well, it touches on some
of the evils in today’s society. As it is for 10-year-olds plus, it does not go
into great detail, but just the amount that they are already exposed to in
their ordinary school lives.For
example, being a spy thriller, naturally they fight terrorism. It also has
homeless kids 12/13 year olds that were mentioned to be using drugs (not in
great detail). For some reason, some adults think this is impossible. Okay, so
I get that people find drugs a bit taboo, yet there are drugs passed around
many schools with our not-homeless preteens being exposed to them. By the way,
any brief reference in the series is done from a non-supportive view and the
users are cleaned up very quickly. But what surprised me the most, was that the
first book received criticism about where the main heroes of the series
originated. Our heroes were rescued from being homeless on the streets at a
preteen age.

Although my
children are not homeless, and I do not believe they have any school friends
actually living on the streets (some may be ‘couch surfing’), I didn’t find it
impossible to believe that children this age would be homeless and on the
street.

There are
many people in the world, some ‘normal’, some not so much, and some taking
unusual to the extreme. People can snap from stress and pressures, and live
their lives equivalent to a horror novel. For example, there have been at least
two chefs, one in the US and one in Australia, who have cooked their wives. I
mention this particular horror because my husband is a chef, and I am far from
being cooked.

Okay, now
you get my point, let’s get back to the homeless children. Looking at
statistics in Australia. A survey is completed every five years the last being
2011. Within this survey, .5% of the population were classed as homeless in its
different forms. 17% of these people were under the age of 12. (http://www.homelessnessaustralia.org.au/index.php/about-homelessness/homeless-statistics)
Admittedly, most of these children are with one or more parents; however, there
are the odd few that are doing it alone. Often they slip under the radar of the
general statistics. One site for Australia covered this briefly stating when
discussing homeless young people. “Typically 13 is the age most leave home.
I’ve come to believe that this age has something to do with their sense of self
developing to a point that they can fathom leaving their family of origin and
standing on their own two feet.

If a child
does become homeless before the age of 15, in almost every case it is because
of sexual or violent abuse. The child leaves because it is safer for them to
live on the streets then to live at home. We have seen them much younger, 9 or
10 usually is the youngest though Gish was first homeless at age 6.”
(http://www.homeless.org.au/children/)

I have not
pinpointed Australia’s statistics to belittle Australia. It is a lovely
country, and I love living here. Nobody wants to find such terrible news about
his or her country. I am sure if we all dug deeper into our countries we would
find similar findings.

In writing
this, I am not having a go at some of the critics. I am just asking people to
be more open-minded when it comes to the unusual and desperate situations that
some people find themselves. And, if in disbelief – Google it.

These evils
produce raw emotion. I wish they were not in our society and would love to see
them cleared up. The reason I used these evils from the society in my series
was to show what the preteens were being rescued from, and how far they would
come with the right guidance. The preteens come further than rescuing
themselves; they help fight against the problems in the world.

Now that I
have covered why I wrote the dark side into the books, upon reading the series
you would find that it is not so deep and dark and has many humorous moments.
If you like sci-fi, check out surrogate robots and Scarlet the cheeky AI. You
will never look at AI’s the same again.

Search This Blog

Interesting?

Somewhere in New Brunswick. Photo by France Duguay.

Allan Hudson

About Me

I started writing later in life, inspired by one of my favorite authors, Bryce Courtenay, who began his writing career in his mid-fifties. It has been one of my most rewarding pastimes. I’ve been an avid reader all my life. It started with Dick & Jane – a primary reader my mother brought home from her work – she was a school teacher and taught me to read at an early age.

World Wonders.

Followers

Good news!

Total Pageviews

5 Star review for Shattered Figurine

The opening chapter presents the detective, Jo Naylor, with a very important question. One she didn’t really want to answer but knows she must.

The next chapter, one year later, hits you square in the face with full on complicated and violent action as we discover what this story is all about.

Shattered Figurines is a surprisingly unusual detective story in that it doesn’t follow the usual plotline for this genre and the characters aren’t run of the mill either. The author has captured a very real element in both the story and the characters and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

I love a good detective mystery story and Shattered Figurines is one of the best I have read this year. I shall be first in the queue when the author writes another one in this series.

Shattered Figurine - a novella - Available Now!

Shattered Figurine. She sold it at a yard sale four years ago, when she was thirty-seven, and she remembers who bought it. She hadn’t given it a thought since then. In her mind, there had been no reason to. The message this morning changed that. She can’t ignore the possibility, no matter how horrific it seems. She prays silently that she be proven wrong" Click on the photo to read a brief excerpt. Thank you for your support.

Shipping your copy of Shattered Figurine.

Please note that you do not have to have a PayPal account to purchase a copy, you will be able to use your credit card. Once notification is received, please allow up to 24 hours for your copy to be shipped. Thank you.

Review of Wall of War

Dark Side of a Promise

Drake Alexander Adventure - Book 1. I'm pleased to announce the first two novels in the Drake Alexander Adventures are now available as an eBook at the following outlets. Kobo, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Baker & Taylor, Playster, Book2read, Bibliotheca, Overdrive, Tolino, Scribd, 24 Symbols & Amazon. Soon to be available at other booksellers.

Buy it Here

Wall of War and Dark Side of a Promise is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Published in 2018 in A Box of Memories, a collection of delightful and entertaining short stories.